a mirror transformed / imagination funhouse / shape-shifting bison
Before the railroads dug, dynamited, laid and placed along pathways heeding the trails of millions of footsteps, decades of tracks.
Hooves that pierce, pinch, and turn over topsoil. Coats, shoulders and spines that roll—some days for joy, for a stretch, to itch a scratch—leaving impressions and a lesser known depression of the topsoil that keeps water for a shade longer when the torrential rains fall. Millions of miniature ponds that seep in rather than aggregate into a rushing stream. Down. In. Not away.
washing dishes: a father’s glimpses 